Click, click, click. Your eyes were trained on the metal rungs of the whisk which sounded on the earthenware mixing bowl with each dexterous flick of his wrist. Pale but sturdy arms were sticking out of rolled-up sleeves, the front of the shirt covered by a comically flowered apron. White flour and sugar crystals and flecks or molten butter clung stubbornly to his skilled fingers, not releasing their hold even when he rubbed the excess ingredients from his knuckles.
A tentative tapping followed by a quiet crack and down into the mixture a golden yolk went, bringing along its cohort of whites. Again the whisk started its staccato rapping against the bowl’s edge. By this time you were getting bored of the constantly repeated actions, slipping from the high stool opposite the cooking German. You went past him to the large fridge to retrieve the simple necessities for hot chocolate. Ludwig was so engrossed in his baking that to him, when you sat back down on the stool cradling a steaming mug, it seemed like you hadn’t even moved from your spot.
It took him a while longer for him to finish the batter and to place it in a tin, into the oven. In fact you were staring into the dregs of your chocolate milk when he started to make the creamy garnish to adorn the cake in all its cooked glory. After several minutes of serious beating, he set the tool down and licked off some of the cream that still clung to his fingers.
Taking the chance now he was occupied with something, you dipped a couple of digits into the cream; planning on stealing some and legging it before he realised. Sadly, this plan of yours, though ingenious, failed terribly. He’d caught sight of you mid-steal and had grabbed hold of your wrists before you could retaliate. All you could use as a decoy was the cream, so with no other choice you flicked it at his face. Most of it landed on his nose and temporarily distracted him, but that wasn’t enough.
Ludwig growled and moved to get hold of your waist, whereupon he then smeared some of his cream onto you. Letting out a shriek of indignation you twisted in his hold, kicking and squealing with laughter. He grinned down widely at you, leaning down to kiss off some of the otherwise wasted cream. You copied the gesture, standing on your toes and licking it away in a would-be sensual manner that sent the both of you into giggles.
In turn, he went after your ear, kissing it at first and then tugging on your lobe with his teeth in an almost shy manner.
“You do taste better, just as I thought.” He murmured quietly, his cheeks darkening to suit the poppies on his apron. Snickering softly at this, you pulled him down to your height, a wicked smirk on your lips. “Care to sample some more then?”